Five years ago, Amy Mason went to Florence to work on her master’s degree. During her last weekend in town, she met a sexy Italian painter who showed her his city, taught her his passion . . . and then stole her heart.

Now, it’s five years after Amy left Italy, and three months after Amy’s fiancé left her, and her friends have convinced her to start dating again. Amy has promised herself that this time will be different - this time she’ll let go of the past and move forward.

But when Amy and her date stumble into an art gallery exhibiting the passionate works of a celebrated new painter, the past rears up and takes her breath away . . . for the woman in the artist’s renderings is decidedly familiar . . .

The door in the corner, behind the couch, beyond the fireplace and the mantel, opened inward with a creak, and the dark young Italian man held it open for the woman. She entered first, hesitantly, as he gently guided her inside with a hand to the small of her back. She glanced around, her eyes as yet ill-adjusted to the darkness, then hugged herself, shivering.

“It’s cold,” she said, and the room seemed to swallow her words.

“Yes,” he said, as though the word went on forever, as though it meant everything. He stood behind her, in the doorway, as she surveyed the studio.

The room was large, and sparse, and lit only by three red candles on the mantel, dripping wax. Each was a different height, but was possessed of the same wide girth. A chaise lounge occupied the center of the space, as though it were an exhibition; it succeeded only in making the room seem larger, and less accommodating, in the middle of such emptiness. The back curved up on one side and down on the other, giving the impression of one half of a yin yang, of sex unfulfilled, and there was only one arm, near the higher end. It was an uncomfortable piece, the woman thought. The fabric was old and worn, ripped in a few places, a drab, faded blue, with once-white flowers sullied to a brownish yellow.

There were boxes, and dust, and canvases turned toward the wall, hiding, unwilling to be bared to prying eyes. They were not blank, the woman could tell, from the splatters of paint evident on the inch-thick edges, and she imagined they must be finished, and perhaps sold.

The walls, she noticed, were blank, conspicuously so. Painted gray, and crumbling, they were bare of artwork or photos; they offered no insight into the man who worked within them; or maybe, she thought, they told more than she wanted to know.

The woman took a few more measured steps inside and stood behind the chaise, sensing the dark young Italian behind her, watching her. He kept the room bathed in the dim candlelight as he stood by the still-open door, and she looked more closely at her surroundings. On the wall to her right two long, narrow windows hid behind flowing red velvet curtains that gathered in heaps on the uneven wood floor.

In front of the chaise lounge she discerned an easel perched on three wooden legs, empty of a canvas, and behind it a stool. Next to the easel stood a small square table covered with coffee cans of paintbrushes and an ashtray almost overflowing with remains of hand-rolled cigarettes. Jars of fresh paints sat on the floor next to a palette covered messily with dried, abandoned colors. A cardboard box overflowed with what looked to the woman like various tools of the artist’s trade.

The wall to her left held the mantel with the candles, which were burning brightly but offered no warmth, no comfort, no intimacy. Below them stood the only painting that faced outward in the room. It was a square canvas, smaller than the others, depicting a young boy in a field of overgrown weeds, crouched low, looking for something, perhaps, or hiding from something. The painting leaned casually against the side of the fireplace, though for some reason, the woman felt it did not belong to the room.

Resting her hands on the back of the worn chaise, the woman inhaled deeply. The air in the large space smelled empty, and stale with old cigarette smoke. She could tell only by the burning candles that the Italian had recently occupied the room. Though the candles were unscented, little black whorls of smoke from the dancing flames wafted toward the woman’s nose, and tickled her senses. The air itself was cold, and played on the woman’s skin with a brittleness she could feel to her core.

She took in another steady, even breath, savoring each sensation as it demanded her full attention, piece by elaborate piece. But still, she did not know how she ought to feel.

Behind her, she heard the Italian finally close the door and flip on the light switch. The chandelier, many feet above the chaise, hanging almost idly from the high-vaulted ceiling, offered a dim addition to the candles. He came up behind the woman, holding a bottle of red wine and two small paper cups, but did not touch her. She turned to him, her entire body tingling with his nearness, and looked up into his blue-green gaze. He motioned her to the chaise. “Please, sit,” he said.

He stood behind her as she walked around the couch. She sensed him studying her gait, the way she held her arms across her chest, warmly, protectively. She put her bag and her coat on the floor beside the arm of the chaise and sat stiffly. He walked to the chaise, to her, and she saw his gaze rest on her long, wavy, mahogany hair, windswept from the chilly autumn evening, from the gusts of the coming storm leaping off the river.

“You are uncomfortable,” he said, looking now into her eyes, and knelt down in front of her. She sat straight, her posture rigid, arms covering her upper body. The only skin he could see was her face and her hands, both tight and flushed from the cold. She moved her hands to her lap and clasped them, tightly. He eyed her hands first, then looked at her ears, her mouth, her nose. Drinking her in. Memorizing her. He longed to see her neck, she could tell, but it was shrouded by a scarf. He reached out to unwrap it. She tensed, and gasped, but made no move to stop him as he slowly, languidly, stripped her of the garment, careful not to touch her porcelain skin.

He folded the scarf and draped it smoothly on the arm of the chaise. She shivered again, the crisp air in the room biting into her now-bare neck.

“I will pour us some wine, yes?” he asked her, his voice dripping with idle sensuality. “Would you like that?”

The young woman nodded, and raised the corner of her mouth in a strained smile. “I’m nervous,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded knowingly as he uncorked the bottle and poured each of them a liberal portion of wine. He handed her a small paper cup and held his own out to her in a toast. She did the same. “Cin cin,” he said. “AllaMadonna. To the Madonna.” He said Madonnalike a lover would, like a possessor. The emphasis was on the “oh,” and it flowed into the long Ns like the waves of an orgasm, the cadence of sex. My lady, she knew it meant, the Virgin, and inexplicably she felt pure, and owned, and whole.

She closed her emerald eyes and brought the cup to her lips. She knew he watched her as he drank from his own cup, as the liquid flowed down her throat, her neck billowing with the swallow. She finished her cup without pause, without tasting, and he cringed. She laughed uneasily, knowing the wine was expensive, knowing she should cherish it, let it dance on her tongue. She held out her cup for more, and the Italian complied as the corners of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

The second cup she sipped slowly, reverently, as did he, the two of them savoring the wine together, in silence. It was rich and heavy, tasting at once of the smooth sweetness of chestnuts and a smoky, earthy flavor reminiscent of tobacco, maybe. The woman had not previously been a consumer of fine wines.

They spent long minutes sipping their wine, each letting the smooth flavors roll on their tongues. When she had finished, he took her cup from her hand and put it inside his own cup, then placed the pair to the side of the chaise. He still knelt in front of her, but moved so that his face was mere centimeters from hers, his eyes level with her own averted gaze. She could smell the wine mingling with the scent of his masculinity as she inhaled, shakily but without sound, through her petite, sharp nose.

“Will you let me touch your face?” he asked, softly, the words on top of one another in a cascading rhythm that threatened to unseat her. She bowed her head in almost holy acquiescence.

The woman sucked in a breath when his fingertips grazed her cheek, featherlight, and followed the line of her jaw to her chin. The pads of his fingers were like small lines of soft kisses running down her face, and she took in another steadying breath.

“Your chin is strong,” he said. “A dramatic chin, like the opera.”

She longed for his touch to spread to her mouth, for his fingers to tread on the supple curves of her lips, for her tongue to taste the hardness of his life, the tenderness of his art. But the tips of his fingers lingered on her chin, studying. He brought his other hand to her other cheek, and repeated the process, converging the fingers from both of his hands on her chin; then he moved his gaze up to her mouth. She felt her lips burning, as though he’d branded her with his piercing stare. He examined her with an artist’s eager curiosity, but she felt also a lover’s tender possession.

His hands left her chin and met again at her forehead. His thumbs pressed lightly over her thinned brown eyebrows, smoothing them, brushing them. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, his face breaths from hers, the secret of his command feathering across the lower part of her ivory face. She obeyed, the scent of the wine mixed with his own breath lingering just under her nose. The last image she had of him was of his dark, rugged face being at once illuminated and shadowed by the flickering candlelight from the mantel.

His thumbs now moved nearly imperceptibly over her eyelids, touched her nose. All sensation moved to this one interminable moment, to this one touch. She felt only the subtle trembling of his fingers and his steady breath on her chin. Though her senses were at a height rivaling a mountain’s peak, no other movement presented itself to her, so that the purity of his touch was uncompromised. As she tightened her lips further, the yearning for his kiss, for his passion, intensified, indulged her feminine aches. She moaned deep in her throat.

Finally, ending her silent torture, ceasing the anticipation, he brought his fingers, lightly, across her closed lips. She parted them slightly and let out a slow, sensual release of desire in a single, steady breath. His face was so close to hers that his fingers must have grazed his own lips; their breaths were no longer solitary, but shared. The unity she felt with this man made her ache with unease.

She opened her eyes. He was looking into them, deeply, profoundly, still touching her lips, his gaze penetrating, waiting, expecting something. The dim light from the room still cast shadows across his darkly masculine features, but it was no longer a frightening, dangerous image. Instead, it reminded her of sex, and passion, and candor.

She stared at him hard for a moment, then turned her jeweled eyes down. His head moved back slightly and he took his hands slowly from her mouth and traced them down her long, creamy neck, and over her collarbone, to the necklace that rested just above the shadowed line of where her small round breasts met. He touched the locket she wore around a simple leather chain, and, finally, took his eyes from hers and looked down. A chill settled over her as she sensed his gaze retreating, leaving her bared.

“It’s a cameo,” she said, still not looking at his face, still looking down. “My grandmother.” Reflexively, she touched her own hand to the necklace, brushing his as she did so, then pulled back abruptly.

He nodded in silent assent, but did not press her. Instead, he stood, wrenching his face from hers, tearing part of her into pieces, forcing her to breathe on her own again.

It took her a moment to catch her breath, as he walked to a corner of the room and picked up a blank canvas from a pile on the floor. Taking it to the empty easel, he gently placed it on the stand and then sat lightly on the stool. Through his motions he made almost no sound, respecting her need to regain her composure, her solitude. He knew instinctively that he had rocked her to her core, brutally and without apology, but he took care to ease her tensions.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, her voice shaking, her breath still unsteady. She sat upright on the chaise, unmoving, her right hand resting on the arm of the couch. The gesture was casual, but she found she needed the strength of the worn piece of furniture. She felt small, and weak. Her other hand she kept in her lap, and her posture was stiff, self-conscious. She’d never before been displayed like this.

His lips curved slightly upward in a grin, and his eyes danced. “You are wonderful just where you are,” he said. His words possessed the fluid shifts of a harp, she thought.

He said, “Will you bow your head, as before, as when I asked your permission?”

Color rose to her cheeks, to her velvety neck, already tinged red from the warmth of the wine, and again she obeyed him. She found she had no choice.

“You are wonderful,” he said, and his tone possessed a trace of awe that unnerved her. Of his sincerity, she had no doubt.

Keeping her head bowed, she looked at him, her sage eyes sparkling, tearing.

“Just like that,” he said, his blue eyes alit with excitement. “Look at me as your head is lowered; do not look at the floor. Just like that.”

She did as he asked, kept her gaze on him as he studied her and pondered his paints, each color in a separate, well-used and stained jar.

“Will you allow me one favor?” he said as he rose from his perch on the stool. Her brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded once, and he approached her again.

As he knelt before her now, she felt her pulse quickening, sensed the hairs on her arms raising. The breath she’d finally caught skipped again, and she thought she’d suffocate. His masculinity was a shroud, at once a warm blanket and a possessive cage.

Before she understood his intention, his hands were behind her neck, beneath her flowing hair, unclasping the locket she wore. His face was once again mere breaths from hers, and her lips parted, uncontrolled, as if they were made for him. She longed to invite him, to clutch him, to trap him. Her eyes met his, and her building desire crashed to her breast with need.

“I must love you,” he said simply, into her opened mouth, echoing her own blazing wishes, and the words pierced her to her heart, her soul, and a longing deep in her womanhood.

She warred with herself, thinking this wasn’t right. Thinking she should leave, she shouldn’t be here, with this man, this artist, with his hands on her neck, holding her, claiming her.

“I know,” he said, as if reading her thoughts, as if she were something he’d created. “But you must. We must.”

Then she blinked, once, breaking her unwavering gaze, and it was like yielding to goodness, to wholeness. And again, he understood her with no words.

He placed the necklace gingerly on the floor, beside the discarded paper cups. She breathed in, waiting, pleading inwardly. He moved back to her, still kneeling, their faces separated by a finger’s width. She longed, more than anything, for his kiss. She longed for his taste, for his lips to tangle with hers. She longed for the struggle, the anticipation, to end. But he did not grant her that release.

Instead, he dropped his gaze to her feet, and stripped her of her fur-covered boots, so that her legs were left in nothing but black tights. He let his fingers lightly brush her toes, her arches, as each boot was taken from her, but no more. He placed the boots on the floor beside the necklace. She watched in silent awe, of herself, of him.

Returning his eyes to hers, the Italian took the woman’s hands in his own and lifted himself gracefully to his feet. Then he pulled her up to stand in front of him, and he felt his eyes burning into the crown of her head. She stared at his chest, at the buttons on his shirt, barriers to her heart’s desire, willing herself not to meet his gaze. Willing herself not to beg.

He inhaled the scent of her hair, a mix of pomegranate and cherry, but kept his hands clasping hers. They stood like that for long, arduous seconds, neither moving, neither saying a word. Scarcely breathing. Her heart, she was sure, pulsed louder than a cymbal, in piercing, agonizing beats.

Her patience was waning; how could he take such leisure now? How could he take such tender care? She wanted this man, and though she could not fathom how he’d come so close to her so quickly, she knew this moment was right.

At long last, he let go of her hands and brought his own to the fabric of her gray cotton dress. He bunched it in his strong, manly hands, and groaned softly, then began, slowly, to lift the garment over her head. She helped him by raising her arms to ease the dress’s passing, silently, still averting his eyes though she could feel them on her; otherwise she communicated nothing to the man undressing her. Finally, when the dress was tossed with care onto the arm of the chaise, finally, she allowed her gaze to meet his.

His eyes bored into hers with an intensity she could not have imagined. Her breath again caught in her throat, and part of her longed to look away, to run away, but her feet were rooted to the floor, her eyes glued to his. His gaze held the promise of . . . what, she couldn’t fathom. She knew simply that it held a promise. For her, alone. And she would see it fulfilled. She must.

His fingers moved to the top of her tights, and coaxed gently, tenderly, inside, grasping the hems of both her tights and her panties. In one fluid, sensual motion, both garments were around her ankles, and, wordlessly, she stepped out of them.

Touching almost none of her skin, teasing her, playing with her, or perhaps waiting to savor, he brought his hands behind her back and deftly unclasped the lacy pale pink bra that covered her round, alert breasts. Slowly, painstakingly, he trailed the straps down her arms until the woman’s last protection between the man before her and her own desperate body was discarded on the floor with her other clothes.

She stood naked before him, unconscious of the cold, of the sparse lighting. She felt only him, and her desire for him, thick and warm and terribly comforting. He pushed the bundle of her tights and panties to the side of the couch, to join her locket, and stepped back. She wanted him to look at her body, needed his gaze on her, his reassurance, his approval. But his eyes remained planted on her own.

“You are wonderful,” he said again, and his voice pierced the quietude crudely. It brought her back to herself, to this moment, and she raised the first two fingers of her right hand to his lips, a muted plea for silence.

He took her hand from his mouth and placed it, without wavering, on his erection, which now fairly tented the loose jeans he wore. The coarse denim hid nothing of his length, of his need for her. His eyes held the same desperate appeal.

His cock was solid, she noticed, and hard, and thick, but she knew without a doubt that it was not yet at its full length, or girth. She gasped, and looked down. He began to unbutton his collared shirt as she examined him, unaware now, uninhibited by her own stark nudity.

When he’d divested himself of his collared button-down and his white undershirt, tossing them aside to lie with her own abandoned garments, he plucked off his shoes and socks with his feet, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on hers, refusing to sully the sanctity of her nudity until he himself was garmentless. Until he could be closer to her level, higher, purer, than where he was now. Until he could meet her as equal.

He gathered her hand, the hand that clutched his cock tentatively, languidly, into his own and placed it on his hard, bare chest. It was muscular, she realized beneath her simmering desire, but not sculpted, not like a statue. She moved her fingers through the few coarse hairs on his tanned chest, and behind them, beneath them, she felt his heart beating, steady, fast.

Slowly, but not at all leisurely, he removed his belt, and his pants, and finally his boxers, so that he stood as bare as she. When his erection sprung free from the restraints of his clothes, it caressed her hip with an intent all its own.

Her hand, as well as her gaze, remained fixed on his chest, still grasping the sparse curly hairs that grew atop his hard pectoral muscles, grasping for purchase on something real, something solid. With that thought, surprising herself, surprising him, her emerald eyes raised to his, and she moved her fingers inch by inch from his chest, to his torso, and down to his swollen, uncut manhood. She gripped his cock in her hand, stroking the hood covering its tender tip, holding on as though he’d take it from her, though she knew, primally, ferally, that in this moment it was meant for her alone.

He let out a breath, a deliberate, measured gesture, his eyes plunging into hers as she again lifted her head to his. “I must love you,” he whispered again, claiming every piece of her with those four words.

He bent his head, his lips, to the area at which her china white neck met her protruding collarbone. He wet his lips and touched them to her skin.

She shivered, though not from the cold, not anymore. A warmth spread through her at his touch, at his kiss, and she pressed her hands to his rough, hard chest once again. She could push or pull, she thought as his kiss strayed from her collarbone to her neck, tasting, imbibing. She could make a decision with her hands.

She let her head fall to the side, exposing her neck, begging, silently, for possession, for trust. When his lips found her ear, he nibbled, his teeth following the line from lobe to cartilage. The core of her womanhood screamed in pleasure, in greed, in demand, and she moaned, giving in to her hunger. She gripped his chest more tightly, and his hands came up to cup her face as he took his bites from her ear, simultaneously filling her with desire and leaving her empty, in need.

Their eyes met one final time, lingering. Each saw the same in the others’, an entreaty and an answer all at once.

The Italian bent and scooped up the woman in one easy motion, and laid her, delicately, on the chaise. He paused, again studying her, examining her, adoring her. His eyes traveled from her pastel-painted toes to her toned, creamy thighs, lingering on the vee of her sex, lingering on her breasts, and finally again meeting her emerald eyes.

In them, she knew, he saw passion, and desperation, and bitter resolve. But she would not look away.

His stare persisting, he laid himself atop her, keeping the bulk of his weight suspended above her with his arms on either side of her head. He closed his eyes and finally, finally, brought his lips to hers in a maelstrom of a first kiss that would have had her knees buckling were she still on her feet. His lips, gentle at first, tasted her, savored her. They were kind to her, ravishing but tender.

Then his lips parted and his tongue emerged to lap her own sweet, sweet mouth, and she moaned in agony, in ecstasy. His kiss grew more insistent, the stubble surrounding them prodding her mouth open, and he bit her lower lip, tenderly at first, then more fiercely.

His coarse, naked flesh fitted itself, from foot to chest, atop her silky smooth skin; together they sparked a blaze of passion that immediately quelled the cool, crisp air of the desolate room. The woman felt the silken hardness of his cock resting anxiously against her drenched opening, but he made no move to enter her. Instead, he continued to taste, to savor, to nibble, inciting a furor of desire inside her desperate chasm.

His left hand touched her cheek and stroked downward, over the line of her jaw and above her vulnerable neck, where, she knew, her pulse threatened to beat right out of her tender skin. He stopped at her breast, and cupped the small mound in his firm grip. She sucked in a ragged breath. As his touch grew more intense, more demanding, and his thumb and forefinger closed on the rock-hard peak of her nipple, he bit down on her ear, fiercely, and she cried out as a wave of pleasure cascaded over her, promising, yet still just out of reach.

The woman moved her hand to his bare buttock, and began to massage, stroking up and down his back with pressure, in hopes of pushing him to finish what he’d started, to give them what they both needed. She moaned with impatience as he continued his biting, pinching perusal of her upper body, but he seemed infuriatingly determined to delay their coupling as long as possible.

As her hips began to gyrate of their own accord, to demand from him a matching motion, and her hand strayed to the cleft of his ass, the Italian lost his fortitude, and, finally, without warning, for waiting any longer would leave them both in a frenzy of aching desire, he thrust his pulsing cock to the hilt into her slick, creamy depths.

She cried out as he filled her, touched her womb with the tip of his sensitive, uncut cock, and tilted her head back, into the arm of the chaise, into the comfort of oblivion, of sweet, primal pleasure. She closed her eyes.

At once, he yanked his thick staff out of her wet folds, a brutal punishment, and took her face in one hand. Fiercely, in a wordless command, he forced her eyes back to his, forced her to share this moment with him. She submitted to his will, and he to hers.

His gaze penetrated even as he plunged into her, slowly, painfully slowly, pushing and pulling, catching and releasing. Their breaths were ragged, but shared, his flowing into her begging mouth as she inhaled, hers resuscitating him as she exhaled, an exquisite imitation of their union.

“Tell me what you feel,” the Italian breathed through her lips, into the desperate abyss that was her moaning, crying mouth. His thrusts were measured, deliberate, patient, and her hips swiveled as she wordlessly demanded harder, faster.

His aqua eyes took on a stormy, violent passion, but his body remained in its temperate rhythm. “Tell me,” he whispered again, his breath now almost a growl.

“More!” she cried. “More!”

As if waiting for his cue, the Italian’s nearly bursting cock crashed into her sleek, tight channel, harder, faster, until the woman’s pleading pleasure threatened to collapse around her.

Their eyes locked, with another muted command, a muted appeal, he ground into her chasm with one last, desperate thrust, and the Italian and the woman cried out together, words impossible, inadequate. Their sexes roared together, rippling as one, as the Italian’s seed spilled into her like lava, warming her, filling her, until her heart itself was touched by it. Their hips continued to dance even as their pleasure subsided, each demanding more, needing again.

Breathing violently, the Italian moved his weight to her side and allowed himself to rest, his arm across her abdomen in a gesture of possession, his leg splayed between hers, wantonly, his knee resting in the crook of her pussy, still wet, still pulsing. Their bodies were soaked in a commingling of their own salty sweat.

She looked at the ceiling, at the chandelier, and steadied her breath, even as she knew his eyes studied her every simple gesture. She felt, in this moment at least, complete, and she was at once hopeful for more and terrified of losing it. A crack of thunder followed by a sharp bolt of lightning pierced their silence, their darkness, and the woman tensed in his arms. He squeezed her, a gesture of protection, of promise, as rain began to pound relentlessly against the windowpanes and wind rattled the glass.

“I don’t know your name,” she said, avoiding his eyes, ashamed at the supplication, the reverence, betrayed in her voice. Ashamed that she’d shared something so profound with someone she could not call out to in the throes of passion. But, she thought, abstractedly, names were trivial.

“Call me Leonardo, come il pintore. Like the painter,” he said into her ear, his whisper reawakening her barely dormant desire. “And you . . . You are Madonna. My lady. Always my lady.”

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